


Eat Your Heart Out

by BearlyWriting



Series: Bad Things Happen Bingo [14]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Bad Things Happen Bingo, Dehydration, Flashbacks, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Prompt: Denied Food As Punishment, Shiro (Voltron) Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Starvation, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-23
Updated: 2019-08-23
Packaged: 2020-09-24 23:22:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20366797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BearlyWriting/pseuds/BearlyWriting
Summary: "It wouldn’t be so bad, Shiro thinks, if he could drink a little more water."For the prompt "Denied Food As Punishment" for the Bad Things Happen Bingo.





	Eat Your Heart Out

“Please,” Shiro begs, a little desperately, because this has spiralled so completely out of his control. “They were acting on my orders. I will serve any punishment you deem necessary, but let the other paladins go.” 

The aliens stare back at him impassively. It’s difficult to read the expressions on their faces when their anatomy is so different from a human’s, but Shiro can’t discern any pity there. His stomach tightens. 

This was supposed to be an easy mission, a few weeks of scientific exchange, some diplomacy – something Pidge and Shiro could have handled in their sleep. Keith had only come with them as a precaution. It had all gone downhill so quickly that Shiro hadn’t even realised anything was wrong until it was too late, and Allura wouldn’t know anything for at least a few days, either. Their chances of rescue were slim. Even once Allura figures out what happens, their alliance will hinder her efforts to get them free. If Shiro doesn’t get the other paladins out of this now, they could all be trapped here for the foreseeable future.

“The other paladins must serve their sentence just as you must, Black Paladin. Following orders is no excuse.” 

Shiro grits his teeth against the angry retort straining to escape. It’s hard to tamp down on the frustration though. The coalition is the important thing here, he tries to remind himself, and they’re well within their rights to demand punishment for a breach in their laws. Shiro has done worse things than jail time to keep an alliance member happy. It wouldn’t even be that bad, except Keith and Pidge are being punished right alongside him – and they can afford to be down Shiro, but all three of them will leave them without Voltron indefinitely.

“Please reconsider. Without the other paladins Voltron will be unable to form. You’ll be leaving countless alliance members vulnerable to the Galra. You must understand that Princess Allura cannot allow this to happen. I will take the punishment if you let my teammates go.” 

Another imperious look. “We are unconcerned with Voltron. You have broken our laws, so you will face our punishment.” 

That has Shiro’s heart sinking all the way down to his toes. No Voltron. And Keith and Pidge forced to suffer the punishment for a call Shiro had made. 

“In light of the fact that the Red and Green Paladins were following your orders, we will allow you to take the worst of the punishment, Black Paladin.”

A little trickle of relief slides through Shiro’s chest. In truth, the sentencing had been a little vague - Shiro isn’t entirely sure what to expect. But if it means that Keith and Pidge will escape the worst of the punishment, he’ll happily take anything.

***

It wouldn’t be so bad, Shiro thinks, if he could drink a little more water. Humans are pretty resilient – Shiro knows that first hand, as well as from his survival training at the Garrison. A healthy person can last as long as forty days without food, if they have adequate hydration, sometimes longer. 

Shiro doesn’t know how long he had lasted during his year with the Galra, although he knows it wasn’t as long as that. The Galra hadn’t been kind enough to postpone his arena battles whilst they slowly starved him. This is better, Shiro tells himself, in so many ways, because at least he doesn’t have to fight this time, doesn’t have to drag energy out of the dark void of his stomach, doesn’t have to worry about the fog in his head clouding his concentration whilst an enemy bears down relentlessly upon him. All he has to do is lie on the cold metal floor of the cell and try not to worry the other paladins too much. 

Still, the Galra _had_ given him water each time he had won – and he had won often, even if he wouldn’t kill for them. The memory sends a strange, cold shiver over his skin. His hands feel damp, as if they’re remembering the cool liquid against his palms. His throat works, spasming dryly around the memory. It’s the same desperate thirst he had felt in the arena, when he had thrown himself against the sand and sunk his hands, his face, whatever he could reach into the trough lined along the high metal wall. The water was always filthy, rank with blood and sweat and sand, but Shiro hadn’t cared then. He wouldn’t care now, he thinks, although the gritty, copper taste of it lingers uncomfortably on his tongue. 

They allow him a few mouthfuls each day – enough to keep him alive for now, although there’s a small, dark part of him that acknowledges that it won’t be for long. Sometimes he considers not drinking it. Maybe it would be easier if he just let himself fade away.

But he can’t do that – not with Keith and Pidge in the cell right beside him, pale and concerned and angry on his behalf. He’s still the Black Paladin, even small and starved in some alien prison cell. He’s still their leader. If Shiro hadn’t given up through that long, awful year with the Galra, he’s not about to give up now. 

Still, it’s difficult to hold onto that resolve when the door slides open and one of the aliens glides in, pushing a wheeled, metal food cart in front of them. There are three bowls balanced on top of it, along with three bottles of water. Shiro clamps down hard on the spark of hope that flickers to life in his chest. He isn’t stupid. He’s seen this tactic used too many times to actually believe that the third bowl is for him. The alien stops at the door to Keith and Pidge’s cell, eyeing them with obvious dislike. 

“Move to the back of the cell,” he orders, voice cool and uninterested. There’s no movement – both Keith and Pidge stay standing where they are, as if frozen. Shiro feels his heart sink. 

“Give Shiro his first.” It’s not a request – not that Keith can really order anyone around. He crosses his arms, eyes narrowed, and Shiro feels a strange mix of fondness and irritation creep through his chest. 

“Keith,” he starts. “Just do what he says.” 

“No. I’m not moving until he gives it to you.” There’s a stubborn set to Keith’s jaw. Pidge nods, as if Keith is being perfectly reasonable, tilting her own chin up defiantly. The alien doesn’t seem concerned. If anything, he looks bored. 

“Then none of you will eat.” 

The fondness in Shiro’s chest fades, and he knows that it’s the hunger clawing irritation behind his ribs, but he can’t stop it rising up his throat like bile. It’s the same every time, the pointless defiance, the self-sacrificing anger. There’s no point in it – whenever Keith and Pidge hold their ground, the aliens keep their word, and all of them go hungry. When they do give in, Keith is always furious at himself, even though it’s pointless. The first few times, Pidge had looked desperately for a way to pass some of her food to Shiro, but the wall of energy is an impenetrable barrier between them. It’s just another cruelty – the fact that the barrier is clear enough to seem as though they could just reach right through. 

“Keith, this is pointless. You need to eat.” And Shiro doesn’t particularly like the desperation in his voice, but it’s better than the irritation he can feel pressing behind his teeth, and Keith acquiesces at the sound, shooting Shiro a wounded look, but dropping his arms to his side. 

“Against the wall, then,” the alien says, still sounding bored, as if this is all some annoying inconvenience. 

Keith’s eyes narrow further, but he moves dutifully to the back of the cell, and, after a moment’s hesitation, Pidge follows. The alien presses something beside their cell and the barrier at the front warps, allowing him to push the cart into the narrow space. Steam rises enticingly from each bowl as he places them on the floor, setting a bottle of water beside each of them, before stepping back out into the hall and letting the barrier slide back into place behind him. When he turns towards Shiro, the Black Paladin’s stomach clenches, tight and flat, too empty to even rumble. 

“Move to the back of your cell.” 

As if Shiro hasn’t just watched the same song and dance happen in the cell right next to his. Shiro moves without argument. But as he gets to his feet, his head spins. A strange dizziness rushes over him like a wave, as if all of the blood in his body has just sunk to his feet. Black spots burst across his vision, darkness descending over him like a shroud being pulled across his face, and Shiro stumbles, lightheaded. Catches himself awkwardly against the barrier between the two cells. Distantly, he can hear Pidge crying out as he crashes into the wall. Feels, rather than sees Keith jerk towards him. There’s a sharp burst of electricity as Shiro makes contact and he falls back with his own cry, landing heavily on the metal floor. For a long moment, he just lies there, panting, listening to his pulse rushing in his ears and the worried babbling of the other paladins. When his vision clears, he pulls himself carefully into a sitting position, blinking quickly to keep the darkness at bay. The alien regards him with cool indifference. 

“Against the wall,” it says, again, as if Shiro is being purposefully obtuse. 

“He’s sick,” Pidge snaps from her own cell as Shiro shuffles backwards on his ass. “He needs food. You’re killing him.” 

The alien doesn’t pay her any attention and Shiro doesn’t have the energy to warn her against antagonising him. His head is still spinning lightly, as if he can feel the rotation of the planet underneath him, and it’s rolling an uncomfortable nausea through his stomach, even though there’s nothing in there for him to throw up. He clenches his teeth against the sensation, slides all the way to the back of the cell, carefully not touching the wall behind him even though all he wants to do is lean back against it. 

The alien touches the same spot outside the cell and the barrier warps, allowing him access. The smell hits Shiro immediately, rich and meaty, and Shiro’s stomach turns. Saliva floods his dry mouth and Shiro has to swallow thickly. It’s difficult to tell whether he actually wants to eat. His stomach is so empty that it rebels against the idea of being filled. Not that there’s actually any chance of that happening. 

The alien picks up the remaining water bottle with one tentacle-like arm, rattling it enticingly before unscrewing the lid. A small paper cup sits next to the food bowl on the cart, and Shiro watches with a creeping feeling of despair as the alien pours a mouthful of water into the cup, then places that on the floor. Shiro shuts his eyes and lets his head drop against his chest. There’s no reason to watch the alien retreat. Shiro had known he wouldn’t be offered any food even before the alien had arrived. He never is. 

“This is bull,” Keith snarls as soon as the alien has retreated to wherever they take the leftover food once they’ve finished taunting Shiro with it. Probably, they just dump it in the garbage. Shiro has to clench his teeth against the anger bubbling up his throat at that thought. “They can’t do this.” 

“Yes, they can,” Shiro sighs, and the words come out strangely thick. “Just eat, Keith. Please.” 

There’s a beat of strained silence. Shiro imagines he can hear Keith’s teeth grinding together. 

“Keith…” Pidge murmurs, gently touching his arm, and Shiro’s chest throbs. He wants so suddenly that it takes his breath away. Not just for the steaming bowls of food sitting innocuously on the floor before them, but for the casual intimacy of that touch. It feels like forever since anyone has touched him, and Shiro isn’t a stranger to isolation, but it still sends a flash of hurt spiking through his chest. Keith huffs but some of the tension drains out of his body and he drops to the floor, crossing his legs underneath him, and pulls the bowl into his lap. 

“This is still bull,” he growls, but he scoops a handful of what looks like stew into his mouth and chews carefully. 

Shiro picks up his own meagre cup and takes a miniscule sip. The liquid is heaven in his dry mouth. His throat works around the little trickle of water. He can’t help taking another sip, even though he should ration it as much as he can. It’s not enough to satisfy him, but it unsticks his tongue from the roof of his mouth. Washes a little of the awful gritty dryness away. His stomach cramps unhappily, and Shiro sets the cup down before he can spill any of it. Then he drops his hand to his belly, pressing it flat against the taut skin, trying to quell the painful clench. It works about as well as it always does.

“Are you OK?’ Pidge asks, sharp, and Shiro has to work hard to keep his face carefully blank. It’s not as if there’s anything they can do for him anyway. 

“I’m fine,” he manages and his voice is surprisingly steady. He presses his fingers hard against his stomach. They’re bright points of pain, sharp against the dull, aching cramp of his gut. With his other hand, he takes another trembling sip of water. There’s less than a mouthful left, just sad little trickles running down the side of the cup, wet against his lips, soaking into his dry skin. Shiro has to tighten his aching throat against the groan that tries to slip out. 

“Just eat.” 

Pidge’s jaw flexes, but she acquiesces, taking a tentative bite of her own stew and Shiro shuts his eyes to block out the sight and tries very hard not to think about exactly how hungry he is. 

***

The crowd roars, a raucous swell of sound, crashing over Shiro like a wave. Shiro barely hears them over the rush of blood in his ears, his ragged pants. There’s always shouting. Shiro learned to tune it out a long time ago. 

That isn’t difficult today, Shiro feels as though a thick blanket has been pulled over his head. He can hear his own panted breaths, his thrumming pulse, the shift of sand beneath his feet, but the rest of the world seems strangely muted, as if he’s straining to hear it through cotton wool. Black spots flash across his eyes, mottled shadows flickering in his peripheral vision. He blinks rapidly to clear them. It doesn’t work as well as he had hoped. 

_Champion, champion, champion._

Shiro sways. Tightens his grip on the weapon in his hands. It slides against his palms, slick with sweat. It’s hot out on the sand, but Shiro feels chilled to the bone, a constant tremor shivering over his skin. 

_Champion, champion, champion._

His stomach is pressed flat. His throat aches, so dry it feels cracked open. He’s desperate for a little water. Just a mouthful. He would kill for it. He would…No… 

The door on the other side of the arena opens and a figure stumbles out onto the sand. They’re small: it’s hard to judge from so far away, but Shiro guesses they only reach his waist. The thin sword grasped in one hand is trailing across the floor, as if they don’t have the strength to lift even that thin weapon. 

It’s a sacrifice. It’s a test. 

Sharp claws press into the meat of Shiro’s shoulder, prick holes in the thin material of his prison suit, draw blood. 

“Kill them and you can eat, Champion.” 

And Shiro _aches_. 

“Shiro?” 

Shiro startles into consciousness. Blinks. Struggles to orient himself. There’s no roaring crowd. No sacrificial opponent. The tight ache of his stomach is the same. So is the dry agony in his throat. But there’s hard metal at his back rather than sand and the skin of his shoulder is smooth and whole – no sharp claws buried in his flesh. Shiro drags himself upright, holding himself steady with his prosthetic arm when the world spins dizzyingly around him. 

“Shiro?” Keith asks again, and Shiro swallows hard. He’s not entirely sure what that was and it’s a sharp, unsettled sensation in his chest. Was it a memory? A nightmare? A flashback? It’s difficult to untangle his thoughts, to see past the hazy fog of hunger in his head. It hurts. 

Shiro can deal with the low, cramping pain in his gut. Can deal with the headache pounding behind his eyes, the weakness, the constant, aching cold. What he is struggling with are the flashbacks, the nightmares, the strange half-formed thoughts and sensations. It’s hard to avoid them. The starvation has drawn a cold, fuzzy blanket over his head, as if he’s draped in thin cotton. It’s difficult to think. Difficult to distinguish what he’s experiencing now, with what he experienced then.

“Are you OK?” Pidge asks, and Shiro has to fight against the memory of Matt’s voice, of that same concern and fear and anger. He nods and his head feels strangely loose on his neck, as if he isn’t totally in control of it. 

“I’m fine.” His mouth is so dry that his tongue sticks to the roof and the words come out slurred and almost unintelligible. Shiro blinks and Pidge’s face wavers in front of him, pale and concerned. “Did you guys get to eat?” 

“Not yet.” Keith appears at her shoulder and Shiro starts. He had almost forgotten the red paladin was here. A little trickle of unease burns through the fog in his head. How could he forget about Matt? His friend could be injured. He could be hurt. He could be starving to death just as Shiro is in some awful Galra prison camp. 

No. That’s not – it’s not Matt Shiro had forgotten, it’s Keith. Matt is right in front of him, frowning, glasses shining in the harsh light. Except that’s not right either. 

“You should eat,” he tries, because that seems safe. Because he was worried about that – his own stomach is too tight to eat anything but Matt should – no, not Matt. 

“We will,” Pidge says, softly. And, oh – Matt isn’t here, it’s Pidge and Keith trapped here with him. It’s Pidge and Keith who are suffering with him. He runs a shaky hand over his face and is surprised by the dry catch of his own palm. 

“Are you sure you’re OK?” Keith asks, and his voice is sharper, harsher, than Pidge’s.

Shiro frowns, irritation swelling in his throat. “I told you I am. Please, just eat.” 

“They haven’t brought any food yet, we’ll eat when they get here. Shiro, I’m worried about you – you can’t keep going like this. They’re killing you.” 

That’s probably true. Shiro isn’t sure how much longer he can last with less than a mouthful of water a day. His head throbs and his whole body throbs along with it, as if the pain is in his blood. Soon he won’t even have the energy to sit up. 

“Shiro? Answer me.” 

Shiro blinks. Was there a question? Has he missed something? He struggles to focus on the other paladins, fighting against the blurry haze of his vision. Both Keith and Pidge are clustered as close to the barrier as they can get without touching it, fear slashed across their faces. Full bowls of food have somehow materialised on the floor beside them. When Shiro turns his head, confused, one of the aliens is standing at the barrier to Shiro’s own cell. Did Shiro pass out? A cold shiver of fear slides over his skin. How much time did he lose? 

“Move to the back of your cell,” the alien orders, with the tone of someone who’s had to ask more than once. 

“How?” Keith snaps, and Shiro wants to tell him not antagonise them, but he can’t work the words out of his dry mouth. “He’s sick. He can’t move.”

“Then he will go hungry.” 

As if Shiro isn’t already hungry. As if they’ve given him anything to eat since they imprisoned him. But the water – Shiro is desperate for even a few drops. His throat aches with it. His lips are so dry that Shiro thinks they would be bleeding if he had any liquid left in his body. If he can just summon the energy to move, he can wet his mouth a little, he can last a little longer. A groan slides out of his throat before he can stop it. 

Keith crowds even closer to the barrier, frantic. “Shiro?” 

Shiro tries to lift his head, but he doesn’t even have the strength to do that. His heart punches against his jaw, against thin, dry skin, too quick, too frantic. Black spots bloom across his vision, even though he’s still lying on the floor. Even though there’s no reason to feel faint, to - 

***

A hand touches his arm. Shiro starts. It can’t be time for another fight – not yet. Hadn’t he just got back from the last one? His body hurts, his head throbs. He must have taken a beating. It isn’t time. But his mouth is as dry as the arena sand so maybe it has been a while – or maybe he just hadn’t won. 

“No,” Shiro tries to say, but the words stick in his mouth, thick and tacky like tar, like blood. It doesn’t matter anyway, Shiro’s pleas have always fallen on deaf ears. The Galra don’t care whether he wants to fight or not. 

“It’s OK,” someone says, close by his ear. And Shiro recognises that voice, distantly. He tries to force the memory of its owner through the fog in his head, but it’s buried too deep. 

The hand shifts. There are no claws, no fur. The arm that wraps around his back and heaves him off of the ground is definitely human. 

“I’ve got you, hold on, we’re getting out of here.” 

Hunk. That’s Hunk. Shiro blinks and the Yellow Paladin wavers into view, his face tight and angry. From somewhere behind him, Allura’s voice snaps out like a whip, sharp with fury. 

“This is utterly unacceptable! If I had known, I can assure you -” 

Shiro misses the rest of her words because Keith and Pidge are suddenly crowding into the cell with him, Keith ducking under the arm that isn’t already supported by Hunk’s broad shoulder. The world spins dizzyingly around Shiro as they right him. If there was anything left in his stomach, Shiro might be afraid of throwing up. Instead, his stomach just clenches angrily, splashing acid up his throat, burning sharp and harsh against dry flesh. His head lolls loosely against his shoulders. 

Hunk’s arm tightens around his back. Then cool hands touch his face, brushing his bangs away from his eyes, and Shiro would flinch but his muscles won’t obey his commands. 

“How long have they denied him food and water?” Allura asks, and her face is very close to his, her brows furrowed in concern. Her palms are dry against his skin. 

“The whole time.” Keith’s voice is tight, practically vibrating and Allura’s face contracts at the words. If that anger were directed at Shiro, he would be quaking under her glare, but her touch stays gentle and when she speaks again her voice is very soft. “I’m sorry we took so long to get to you, Shiro. We were not aware…” Her voice cracks. “You do not need to suffer here a moment longer.” 

_It’s OK,_ Shiro wants to say. The words die before they even reach his throat. 

It was worse with the Galra, he wants to say, although that probably won’t make them feel much better. At least this time he had known they would come for him. At least this time he wasn’t alone.

“Come on, Shiro,” Allura says, gently. “Lets get you home.”

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed :)
> 
> I have a tumblr at [bearly-writing](https://bearly-writing.tumblr.com/) if you fancy dropping by for a chat!


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